And Ruby is my weakness.
I exhale loudly, my hands gripping the wheel in frustration. It’s going to be an uphill battle no matter how we look at it. But I still believe that we can make it work.
Somehow.
I manage to put all that to the side when I pull up outside of Ruby’s hotel. She’s already waiting by the entrance, dressed in boots, jeans, a leather jacket, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. She sees me and her smile breaks my heart. I’m so fucking lucky that she smiles that way at me.
She opens the passenger side door and slides in.
“I’ve missed this car,” she says, running her hands along the dash. “Though I’m surprised you didn’t get an upgrade when you became captain.”
“I’m counting on getting an Audi when I get traded to Real Madrid.”
“Ugh, you’re still on that?”
“It’s my career,” I remind her, trying to navigate the tram tracks. “I forgot to tell you about another dream of mine. Becoming the captain of the Portuguese national team. I believe proving myself as captain of Real Madrid will get me one step closer to that.”
“You’re going to take over Ronaldo’s role?”
I shrug. “Stranger things have happened. I believe you can do anything you put your mind to, if you really want it that badly. Manifestation is real.”
Perhaps it’s why you’re here.
“I believe it,” she says. “You know, I hate to sound presumptuous, but I would love it if I could see y’all practice. Or at least go to a game.”
“Of course,” I tell her. “You can do both.”
“Really?” she practically squeals, bouncing her legs up and down.
I grin at her. “Yes, really. We have another practice in two days. You can come to that. Bring your Finnish friend if you want.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s no problem.”
“I won’t psyche you out?”
I glance at her. Her brows are raised and she looks especially innocent. “Well, now I’m thinking you might.”
“I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
“Your best behaviour is still a little devious.”
She gives me a cheeky smile. “I’ll see what I can do. Anyway, where are we going? What’s the surprise?”
“It’s not a surprise if I tell you. Just sit back and relax.”
Of course, telling Ruby what to do never works.
The first surprise is Palácio da Pena, on the hill above the town of Sintra. Usually the place is absolutely packed with tourists, and the lines can last hours. But since it’s the off-season and the afternoon, close to closing, and half the palace is shrouded in cool fog, it’s easy to find parking.
We head up to the castle-like palace, Ruby going into full-on tourist mode, oohing and aahing over the sights. There’s a lot to see here. Personally, I think the palace is a bit garish and tacky, but that’s part of the charm I suppose. It’s huge and sprawling, a bunch of different buildings smashed together, built over the years for King Ferdinand.
I play tour guide, showing her the different rooms inside, the tile work and gargoyles, pointing out the Neo-Gothic, Islamic, and Renaissance architecture and the mix of colors—red, yellow, lilac—that make it look cartoonish.
“I feel like I’m in a Portuguese Disneyland,” Ruby says, handing me her phone. “Can you take a photo for me? It takes shitty photos, but I think I need to pretend to be a princess.”
She poses under an arch that normally has a stunning view behind it, but today is ghostly with fog. With her leather jacket and her black hair whipping around her, she looks more like a heroine from a gothic novel. Or a ghost.
My ghost from my past.
I take her picture and hand the phone back to her, but she grabs me by the arm and pulls me to her side.
“I don’t have any pictures of you,” she says, holding the phone high. “We’re taking a selfie.”
We both give matching smiles to the lens, close-lipped and somewhat smirking.
“It’s scary how good we look together,” she says, staring at the photo, pointing at our similar expressions, our black hair. “I mean look, we’re like the same person.”
“I am you and you are me.”
She gives me a small smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“You’re going to have to send that to me,” I tell her. I don’t have any pictures of her either. Sometimes I’ve looked at the pictures of her taken at the gala, when she was with Marco, as if that was the only proof I had of her.
After that, we get back in the car and we drive to the coast to surprise number two.
“A lighthouse?” she asks, staring at the aforementioned lighthouse next to the parking lot we just pulled into.
“It’s not just the lighthouse,” I tell her. “It’s the piece of land beyond it. This is the most western part of the European continent. Cabo da Roca.”
The piece of land in question is a promontory that sticks out hundreds of meters above the sea. The wind here is usually fierce, especially in winter, but today it seems manageable. I grab her hand and we walk along the path past the lighthouse, skirting the edge of the rocky cliffs dotted with wind-hardy succulents. The cliffs are a sheer drop to the raging ocean over a hundred metres below.
“It’s so beautiful,” she says, face to the wind. “We’re on the edge of the world.”
“Sure feels like it, doesn’t it?”
I pull her along and we wind along the cliff, past the few tourists taking photos. There’s a short wooden fence that warns people to stay off the cliff face, but people ignore it anyway.
So does Ruby.
She lets go of my hand steps over the fence.
“Ruby,” I warn her, reaching for her.
“I’m not going far,”
